People ask me why I don’t write more and it’s usually because I don’t have the time or the inspiration but I guess those are both just excuses.
I’m basically my own therapist and get out my anger in memes now. All the voices in my head are in agreement that it’s a good choice, except Chad – he’s a dick.
way to go chad, you drained a lake
Some things are so terrible, though, you just have to write. This is one of those times.
I had the Trader Joe’s “Sushi Sensations” platter today. Mind you – not the little California roll – the full-on supposed-to-serve-five-people platter with two rolls and three pieces of shrimp sushi.
God, it was awful.
Dry, cold, hard rice in cubes filled with fakecrabmeat accompanied by putrid orange mayo, sickening teriyaki sauce, and beige wasabi paste. It’s like sushi they’d make for North Korean astronauts.
I knew it’d be bad. I knew I’d eat it, hate it, and hate myself. But I got it anyway.
About once a year I get stomach-dissolvingly hungry and I go into Trader Joe’s expecting to get a sandwich except I’m stupid and they don’t have sandwiches anymore and they haven’t had them for years for no other reason I can think of except that they just outright hate their customers.
They do have “wraps” though, and the difference between “wraps” and sandwiches are as follows:
would you like a sandwich (meat and vegetables with cheese between delicious bread)
or would you like a burrito made by Gwyneth Paltrow (a cold, dry tortilla filled with mushy, minced sandwich ingredients).
Wraps are a war crime.
I’ve never had a good wrap.
I’ve never had a wrap that’s better than a sandwich.
I’ve never had a wrap that’s equivalent to a sandwich.
I’ve had wraps that have been my own personal Srebrenica.
But this isn’t about wraps. This isn’t about sushi.
This is about Trader Joe’s, and the abusive relationship I have with them.
It’s both my closest store and favorite store because they have delicious things: bread, pizza dough, pasta, desserts, yogurt, wine, cheese, produce. They hit it out of the park with those.
And then they follow it up with a ready-to-eat foods section that’s American Horror Story, Season 7.
It’s like a beautiful, smart, charming, voluptuous, kind woman with the worst garlic breath.
“i had greek for lunch”
There’s no excuse, really.
Whole Foods does a great job, with the salad bar that goes on for miles.
Sprouts does a great job, and has the best sandwiches on earth.
Even your local chain grocery store has a good deli.
could i get a pound of human plz
How can you screw up the easiest part of being a grocery store?
A smart person would tell you that due to their German ownership, Trader Joe’s mirrors the expectations of European clientele – food is a thing to be made at home, you lazy American, so buying something pre-made should be a punishing and temporary experience, like being in an elevator with no cell service or writing a check.
Me, a dumb person, sees my relationship with Trader Joe’s much more personally – a dysfunctional, abusive relationship.
When things are good, it’s great. There’s a group of people coming over, I can go to Trader Joe’s and get all the appetizers, the drink, the entree ingredients, the dessert, all for significantly less than a third mortgage (sorry Whole Foods.)
But when times are tough, and it’s 11AM, and it’s not quite lunchtime, and I skipped breakfast, and I need something quick, Trader Joe’s is a cruel mistress, offering the worst buffet of prepared food this side of the Golden Nugget all-you-can-eat.
this was all just a grand excuse to use this nutty professor clip, one of the greatest scenes in cinema history
I know it’ll happen again – I’ll get hungry, I’ll wander inside, and I’ll stare at the prepared food case like the Ceausescus facing the firing squad.
I’ve sealed my fate. Execution is imminent. The Grim Reaper is sharpening his tool.
I’ll choose something. I’ll choose wrong. I’ll pay for it, and make small talk with the cashier. I’ll go outside and eat it, and wince, and grimace, and choke it down.
I’ll no longer be hungry.
But I’ll still be empty inside.